Thanksgiving Dinner nosleep

 Thanksgiving Dinner 

It has been almost two years since I lost my childhood friend, John, along with his lovely wife Cassie, and their newborn daughter, Jessica on Thanksgiving Day. It all started a week before Thanksgiving when John sent me a text message, as I was finishing a construction design project.

“Hey man,” the first message read followed by the second text message a couple seconds later. “Got any plans for Thanksgiving this year?”

“Nothing yet, probably make some spaghetti,” I sent back.

“No way, Cassie is a great cook and you haven’t met little Jessica yet,” he sent. “Come on by around 2,” he sent a few seconds later.

“Alright, see you then,” I text back.

That entire week seemed to drag by since the client had taken the week off for the holidays, which meant the project was on hold until after he came back. Each night I would come home to my empty apartment and microwaved myself a TV dinner. It had been almost three year since I had a home cooked Thanksgiving dinner as my stomach growled in anticipation as I watched the microwave finish the poor excuse for Saulsberry steak dinner.

“Need me to bring anything?” I texted the afternoon before the feast. I did not want to be a free loading mooch and wanted to bring a green bean casserole. It was three cans of green beans, matchstick carrots from a bag and fried onion rings on the top before baking in the oven for twenty minutes. My culinary skills were on par with a bowl of ramen noodles and cut up Vienna sausages in it.

“Its up to you but Cassie is going all out since I told her you are coming,” the message read a couple minutes later. “She has already started prepared.”

I ate my fast food burger and fries as I imagined the feast I would be privileged to tomorrow. I decided to go to sleep early that night as I dreamed of the dinner with all the savory smells flooding my subconscious brain. I awoke the next morning with a small pool of drool on my pillow as I rubbed my eyes and wiped away the corners of my mouth. I grabbed my phone off the charger to check the time, which read 9:30 am, causing me to yawn as I began stretching my muscles out. After taking a nice hot shower and a quick shave, I threw on some khaki dress pants and a light green polo shirt. I sat in front of the TV and watched the Thanksgiving parade for about an hour before watching a movie.

I heard my phone alarm go off, which let me know it was 1 pm, as I grabbed my car keys, wallet and phone before heading out of my apartment. The roads were pretty empty as I made my way across town to John’s house. As I pulled into the drive, I noticed the new minivan parked next to John’s Dodge Dart SRT. I noticed the baby seat in the back seat of the Dart, as I smiled. A gear head that loves speed yet has family responsibilities, I laughed internally, knocking on his front door.

“Hey Mark, you’re here finally,” John smiled as he put his arm around my shoulder, the mixture of amazing aromas wafting from the inside his house.

“Thanks for the invite, it smells amazing in here,” I said as Cassie walked out of the kitchen area.

“Mark,” Cassie said. “Glad you made it,” she said as she wrapped me in a huge hug.

“Need any help in the kitchen?” I asked, feeling guilty about just bringing the bouquet of flowers.

“No, you go sit down and relax, and stay out of my kitchen,” she said in a tone that I couldn’t determine was serious or joking, before pushing me toward the living room as I stole a quick glance into the kitchen.

The counter had candied yams with raisins, homemade stuffing, green bean casserole which I had texted her my recipe and fresh yeast rolls ready for the oven. The aroma of the kitchen and the combination of different foods had my stomach growling and my mouth watering.

“Come check out my new mead brewing hobby in the basement,” John said as I followed him down the stairs.

“What is it?” I asked as I looked at the multiple empty bottles and a half dozen full glass carboys.

“Its called mead. One of the oldest forms of alcoholic beverage, older than even beer,” John said as he walked toward a couple of the glass carboys. "Made from honey, water and yeast basically."

“Is it ready to drink?” I asked pointing to a glass carboy with a red colored liquid in it, my lack of knowledge evident.

“Not yet,” he laughed. “Some meads take a few months to mature but most take six months or longer,” John said as he began to explain the different styles, brewing techniques and history.

I looked at a couple of the labels, Raspberry Mead October 7th, 2015, that had a deep ruby red color, another label read, Chocolate Mead April 18th, 2015, which had a light brown color almost like chocolate milk and the last label read, Ancient Orange Mead August 21st, 2015 had a light orange color inside the glass carboys.

“I bottled an eight month Ancient Orange mead on Halloween, it’s a great beginner mead to taste. Want to try some?” he grinned, already twisting the corkscrew off the top of the bottle.

John took a couple shot glasses and poured it halfway with the light orange liquid. Once he handed me the shot glass, I downed it in one gulp, feeling the burn of the alcohol and the sweetness of honey.

“Oh my god man,” John laughed. “You are supposed to sip it like a fine brandy not shoot it like a bottom shelf tequila,” he continued to laugh as he poured me another shot glass.

“This is really good,” I said as I slowly sipped it, surprised at the complexity of flavors.

“Fourteen percent alcohol content,” he proudly exclaimed as he poured himself another shot. “Going to bring a bottle up for dinner.”

We both walked upstairs to watch the new Batman movie as the kitchen aroma of fresh pumpkin pies being cooked assaulted my senses, my mouth beginning to salivate. I peeked around the corner to see Cassie basting the turkey with her back to me.

“How long until dinner? These aroma are killing me,” John complained, hanging on the corner door frame as she closed the oven door, turning around to face us.

“Another hour, longer if you two don’t leave me alone,” she laughed, pointing her finger, gesturing out of the kitchen at us.

“Want to see little Jessica?” John asked as we walked toward the living room.

“Please don’t wake the baby, she was up all night,” Cassie said, sticking her head from out of the kitchen.

“Just a quick peek, we will be quiet, I promise,” John said as we walked toward the back bedroom.

The door was closed as John silently cracked the door open. The wooden crib sat in the middle of the room with a colorful Mobil that played a quiet tune of Rock a Bye Baby. Through the crack I could see the pink blanket covering the baby.

“Come on, Cassie will kill me if we wake up Jessica,” John whispered as he silently closed the door.

We both went back to the living room to sit on the light tan sectional sofa to watch the football game as we both kept glancing toward the kitchen, mesmerized by the overwhelming aromas.

“Where is Whiskers, I haven’t seen him today?” I asked since their cat loved to sit in anyone's lap as long as they were petting him.

“Haven't seen him since this morning, he ran out the door when I grabbed my jacket from the Dodge. He will be back as soon as he is hungry, meowing loudly at the door,” John said.

“Maybe he went to his own Thanksgiving celebration,” John added as he began to laugh.

I knew this from personal experience when I house sat a year ago, when he ran out as soon as I opened the door and he was meowing at the door a couple hours later to be let back in.

“Damn man, are you sure that mead was only fourteen percent, starting to get a little buzzed,” I said as my head began to develop a cloudy haze, yet relaxed feeling.

“Guess I won’t have to open that second bottle light weight. Want me to go get you a Zima,” he laughed as we both looked back toward the kitchen for the hundredth time.

“Shut up,” I laughed as we turned our attention back to the football game.

I heard Cassie open the oven door as the turkey aroma seemed to multiple. I could swear she was doing it on purpose, causing our hunger to continuously grow. John took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma as he seemed to melt into the sofa.

“John, could you come help set the table?” Cassie asked, poking her head from the kitchen.

“Want me to come help?” I asked as I attempted to push myself into a sitting position.

“Don’t you dare get up Mark, you are our guest,” she grinned as John groaned having to get up from his comfortable position.

“Anything for you honey,” he laughed loudly as he took the plates and silverware from Cassie who was putting the final touches on the dinner.

Cassie was handing John an assortment of bowls and platters filled with different foods, as I lost focus on the football game and watched the table be prepared from the sofa. I could tell their love for each other seemed to grow each time I saw them together. It made me sad thinking back on all the relationships I had that had failed, now I wanted to be in love just like theirs.

“Don’t you start taking samples mister,” I heard Cassie scold John as he took a small fork of the stuffing, laughing. John slowly came back to the couch with a huge grin of satisfaction on his face.

“That has to be the best damn stuffing I ever had. I can’t wait to try the turkey. Cassie says the turkey is almost done being carved up,” John said as he fell back down into the couch.

About ten minutes later, Cassie came out of the kitchen carrying a large platter with the turkey slices on the table.

“Time for dinner you guys,” she called out as we both jumped out of the sofa and made our way to the table.

The amount of food that was placed in front of us was enough to make a King’s banquet pale in comparison. The turkey meat looked so juicy, as Cassie poured a small amount of homemade gravy on top, causing the meat to steam slightly. The stuffing was made from her grandmother recipe. It had small pieces of carrots, celery and red onions mixed in with different seasonings and spices. The fresh sweet corn had diced red and green peppers that gave it a festive fall look to it as she placed a few slices of butter on top to melt. The pasta salad looked amazing, even though I knew it was from the box I had glimpsed earlier. The green bean casserole, she had improved my recipe by placing bacon bits inside with the green bean and sprinkled the fried onion bits on the top, the presentation put mine to shame. Last was the yeast rolls, they were still steaming with the shine of freshly melted butter on top.

“Told ya she is an amazing cook,” he grinned as I stared wide eyed in shock and amazement, my stomach growling once again.

“Oh man, almost forget the mead,” John said as he quickly ran downstairs to grab the opened bottle and another corked one, coming back to the table in less than a minute.

I took my plate and began to place a little of everything as John passed each dish around the table. I took the yeast roll and tore it in half, watching as the steam rose in a hypnotic dance.

“Try some of the cinnamon honey butter on the roll,” Cassie said as she passed it toward me. The butter melted as I placed it in between the two halves of the roll, as I tried a small bit of the special butter on its own. It was a flavor my taste buds and brain had trouble processing, it was so good that I made a mental note to get the recipe, even though I knew I could never duplicate it. My brain and taste bud quickly became in sync as both screamed in unison, "if the butter is this good, hurry up and try the real food."

“The turkey is amazing, the breast meat is so juicy,” I complimented Cassie as she blushed slightly.

“Thanks, I wasn’t sure if I had prepared it properly, I hoped it would not be too dry,”

Each bite was as good as the first as we all sat silently eating through the first serving. The conversation started as each of us had begun the second serving, the feast slowing. We laughed about our past experiences, talking about daily events and future plans as we finished the first bottle of mead. We each had eaten and drank enough that the food coma and alcoholic effects from the mead were battling each other for supremacy.

“I hope you saved some room for pumpkin pie,” Cassie said as she got up to grab the pies from the refrigerator.

I groaned in frustration as my brain berated me. “How could you forget about dessert you big dummy,” my brain screamed as I continued to snack on the juicy turkey meat.

Cassie came back with small pieces of pumpkin pie on dessert plates topped with Cool Whip and a small fork. Once we all had our desserts in front of us, John opened the cork of the second bottle of mead as we all poured ourselves another small cup of the potent liquid. The fork cut through the pie like a hot knife through butter as I brought the first bite to my mouth. My taste buds were electrified, tingling with the flavor of cinnamon, hint of vanilla, and nutmeg that had infused into the pumpkin pie. I glanced at John who had the same expression I had before looking toward Cassie. She just smiled at us both as she finished her bite and took a sip of her drink.

We sat at the table for another twenty minutes, sipping the mead, enhancing the food coma, and causing all of us to be more than a bit buzzed. The conversation turned to movies and our favorite scenes as we occasionally complimented Cassie on the amazing meal. She just smiled and deflected the compliments toward her mother and grandmothers recipes. I decided that I would do the cleaning up and dishes since Cassie did all the food preparation and cooking.

I gathered the dinner plates, dessert plates and silverware from the table as I went to the kitchen. The sink was filled with pots and pans, cooking utensils and other dishes used in the preparation and cooking process. I took the sponge on the counter as I poured a small amount of the liquid dish soap onto the sponge before turning the water on. I quickly washed the counter to the right of the sink before placing a clean dish towel down.

“I guess this is a small price to pay for enjoying such an amazing Thanksgiving dinner,” I thought as I began to stack the pot and pans on the other side of the sink, clearing one side for the clean dishes.

I began with the plates, silver wave and cooking utensils, washing each one and rinsing before placing on the clean dish towel. Once the dish towel was full of clean dishes, I took another clean one and began to dry each piece before putting them away in their proper places in the cabinets and drawers. It took three sink full of clean dishes placed and dried before the kitchen area was completely clean.

“The last pan and I am done,” I thought as I looked at the store bought aluminum pan that held the covered remains of the turkey with a piece of aluminum foil on top. I grabbed a new trash bag from under the sink as I grabbed the pan, placing it in the trash bag as the foil top fell into the bag first. The turkey did not look like any turkey I had seen, as I held the trash bag open staring at the remains. Looking at the bones, something did not appear right since I could not locate the wing bones and the leg bones seemed a bit odd looking.

“Hey man, thanks for doing the dishes, I love Cassie cooking but hate cleaning up,” John said as he came in, still sipping on his drink.

“These bones look strange, where are the wings? And look at the breast area, it seems too small,” I said as I held the trash bag open for John to examine the remains.

“Maybe it was a smaller turkey,” he said, yet his voice did not have the same conviction.

We both knelt on the floor, looking inside a trash bag at the remains, our suspicions growing each second.

“When did you grab your jacket this morning?” I asked, hoping my suspicions were not correct.

“About 7am I think,” he said, still staring at the bones.

“Its been over 8 hours, Whiskers doesn’t stay away that long right?” I asked, my brain still fuzzy from the alcohol.

“No, usually only an hour or two at the most,” John was whispering at this moment.

I pulled the aluminum pan out of the trash bag to get a closer look, as we both looked at the bones in a bizarre attempt at being a crime scene investigator.

“You don’t think,” I trailed off, not wanting to accuse Cassie of killing, cooking and feeding us Whiskers.

“No, it can’t be,” he said slightly slurred as he took the leg bones and placed them where they would normally be located.

Cassie came in with a shocked look on her face as she saw two grown men, obviously drunk, sitting on the floor arranging the bones of our Thanksgiving turkey remains.

“Where is Whiskers?” John asked as Cassie stood over us.

“I don’t know, you said he ran out the door this morning,” she said, a bit too defensive in my opinion, and I think John felt the same way.

“Where is Whiskers?” John said a bit more loudly, and more slurred in a tone I hadn’t ever heard. Cassie began to cry, as John got up to comfort her.

“I was just so tired, I just wanted some peace and quiet,” she sobbed into his shoulder. John suddenly stopped holding her and pushed her to arms length away.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but suddenly his body stiffened as he ran past her.

I sat there on the floor next to the remains while my best friends wife kept sobbing against the door frame of the kitchen. A second later, John came running into the kitchen holding the pink blanket.

“Where is Jessica? Why is she not in her crib?” he screamed as he dropped the blanket, grabbing her shoulders and pushing her against the wall.

I stumbled to my feet as I grabbed John by his arm, trying to pull him away from Cassie.

“Whats wrong? Where is Jessica?” I asked as I pulled John from Cassie, a mixture of fury and panic in his eyes I had never seen. As soon as I got John a few feet away, he collapsed to his knees on the floor.

“I was so tired, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Cassie kept whispering quietly in between sobs.

I looked at John, my best friend since we were kids, in a state of anger and shock, before looking at Cassie, who I had known since we were teenagers, and finally to the pink blanket lying on the kitchen floor. I stumbled to the back bedroom to the open door, looking at the wooden crib with the Mobil still playing the same song, rotating above. I walked slowly to look inside the crib, noticing the small pool of dark red liquid on the baby mattress. My mind still in an alcoholic induced fuzz, attempted to place everything together. I stumbled back to the kitchen to see John holding the pink blanket, sobbing. Cassie was in a catatonic state, still whispering over and over again.

“Oh my god,” my brain finally put all the pieces together once I looked back at the turkey remains sitting on the kitchen floor. My stomach began to twist and flip as I ran to the sink, and began to violently throw up. Mark just stayed sitting on the floor, as he began to throw up. I paused enough from the dry heaving to grab my cell phone and dial 911. I had trouble explain the situation except to tell the operator my best friend’s wife had killed their newborn baby in a drunken, rambling state.

As I was on the phone with the 911 operator, I noticed Cassie had walked to the kitchen drawer.

“I am sorry John,” she said as she grabbed the carving knife, slashing her left wrist then taking the knife and plunging it into her stomach.

“No,” I heard John scream as Cassie fell to the floor as I began yelling into the phone about Cassie actions, even though my mind went into shock as the knife hit the kitchen floor.

Within minutes, the neighborhood was filled with flashing police lights and sirens. The first officers on scene had placed Cassie in the back of the ambulance, as the other officers took our statements and began to collect evidence of the thanksgiving feast and the crib and mattress.

During the statements, Whiskers was found in the backyard sleeping under the lawn table, enjoying in the cool autumn weather.

I told the investigators that I had seen the crib and blanket covering what I thought was the baby yet never saw her, learning later the blanket had been placed over a stuffed bear which I saw on the ground earlier. I told them how quiet the baby was and thought it was odd but some babies were quiet, until I looked back and realized I was there for over four hours and not a single cry was heard, yet I now know why.

The story was quickly leaked to the press and within the hour, multiple news vehicles had blocked the street, trying to get a picture or interview with the husband or me, who ate a newborn baby. Cassie had died of blood loss before the ambulance could arrive at the hospital as detectives continued to question and interrogate John at the police station throughout the night. Not even informing him of his wife’s death until the next morning. After a couple days of investigation, John was not charged with any crimes.

I tried to keep in contact with John throughout the next couple weeks but he was not the same carefree, jokester that I remember. Three months after Cassie had killed her baby daughter and taken her own life, I received a call from John around three in the morning.

“Hello,” I asked, still in a daze from being awoken from sleep.

“Its me, John,” he said in a voice that sounded like he had been crying.

“What time is it?” I asked trying to stay as close to the dream state as possible.

“Almost 3, I miss her so much,” he began to sob in between each word.

“I know man, come on by and we can talk,” my brain beginning to awaken as I sat up in bed. John had called and come over a few times the last month just to let all his pain and emotions out with his best friend.

“Not tonight, I am so angry and it hurts so much,” he said, sniffling a couple times.

“Come on by, I will throw a pizza in the oven and we can talk,” I said, knowing that food would not ease his pain.

“You have been my best friend, I am sorry what Cassie did to us, did to you,” he sighed in a defeated tone.

“No need man, let’s just sit down and talk for a while,” I said, recognizing the desperation in my voice.

“I am sorry,” he said before I heard a loud gunshot causing me to drop my phone.

“John, John. Answer me,” I screamed, grabbing the fallen phone, before hanging up and dialing 911. The operator was able to track his cell phone GPS to the cemetery. He had broken in and called me while sitting next to his daughter Jessica and wife’s gravestone. The police found he had placed a bouquet of flowers on the graves before committing suicide.

I had a mental breakdown after John’s death and had to see a shrink, just too much physiological trauma the last few months. I have been visiting the shrink every Tuesday for almost a year to work through it, yet about three months ago I decided to stop going as the dreams intensify. I have been having dreams of that Thanksgiving and how delicious the meat was. I am suddenly awake lying in bed with my stomach growling, my mouth salivating and I am afraid of what that means.

Submitted October 14, 2017 at 12:35PM by Niteclawz http://ift.tt/2kPlLGD nosleep